


Your Freedom Isn't Free

by AgentZee



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Existentialism, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Moominpappa's Memoirs, Post-Memoirs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentZee/pseuds/AgentZee
Summary: An innocent question from a young Snufkin turns into a somewhat philosophical discussion because The Joxter has no concept of small talk. Snufkin’s worldview is challenged and may never be the same again.Father-son quality time at its finest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic, and possibly one of my favorite works to date, inspired from just a couple of lines in the original canon.   
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

“Daddy? Do you… do you love the Mymble?”

“Yes, I do.”

Snufkin hesitated. He could imagine how awfully childish this would sound to his father but his curiosity overwhelmed him and before he could stop himself, the rest of his question followed, “…More than me?”

The Joxter turned to look at his son, an expression of mild surprise on his face and a hint of amusement in his voice, “Speak up, boy; your daddy’s hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

“Do you love the Mymble more than you love me?”

The Joxter’s surprise made way for the kind of smile one would give to an overly inquisitive toddler. “What makes you think that?”

Snufkin lowered his eyes as to not meet his father’s. It _was_ a silly thing to ask, he knew that much, and even though he felt too embarrassed to say anything more, he couldn’t allow himself to let go of the subject once he finally brought it up.  
He pretended to take interest in a loose string on the sleeve of his coat and fingered it absentmindedly as he tried to decide whether his father’s last remark was a question waiting to be answered, when the Joxter broke the silence, “I do not love the Mymble more than you. I love you both equally, but differently.”

Snufkin looked up from his sleeve to meet his father’s eyes again as he continued his explanation.

“You’re my son, my own flesh and blood; I love you like I love myself, if not more.” The Joxter said, and then added with a chuckle, “Probably more.”

Relief spread across Snufkin’s face and his tensed expression relaxed into a smile. _Of course_ his father loved him, how silly it was of him to think otherwise! The Joxter’s explanation, however, did not stop there.

“My love for your mother is… different. I don’t love her more or less than you, it’s just not the same kind of love. I love her the way spring loves the apple trees, the way the moon loves the sun, the-“

“The way a man loves a woman.”

The Joxter seemed to be taken aback at having his poetic chatter interrupted, but then his smile returned and he simply said, “Yes.”

Snufkin nodded briefly and looked on ahead from the riverbank on which they both sat. The river flowing through Moominvalley glittered in the sunlight, the rush of the water was calming, soothing, beckoning. Snufkin’s eyes followed its course through the valley all the way beyond the mountains, and wondered whether starting his journey earlier this year would be a good idea.

“Does that bother you?” his father’s voice suddenly pulled him back to their conversation, and he had to consider the question for a few minutes until he remembered what they were talking about.

“No, it doesn’t. Not really…”

“What sort of answer were you expecting?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything, I just…” his voice trailed off and he felt his throat clenching, as if his own body was forbidding him from speaking further. He drew a couple of calming breaths, turning the words in his head over and over and trying to foretell with all his might whether his father would be upset by what he had to say. Unfortunately, he was no expert at guesswork, and any attempt to predict the Joxter’s reaction would be nothing but a waste of time, or so he was told. Finally he blurted, “I thought you were free, like me.”

The Joxter said nothing but his eyes said everything. _What in the world is that supposed to mean?_ They seemed to say, in anger more than confusion, as if the very notion that he was not free was a personal offense to him.

For a moment Snufkin felt frightened, until he reminded himself of all the dangerous things he had encountered and bravely stood up against in the past. Between vengeful policemen, deadly falling stars, electrifying Hattifatteners and bloodcurdling Grokes, an angry father was nothing he couldn’t handle… or so he hoped.  
Snufkin started speaking again as soon as he felt confident enough to do so without once considering the possibility that he might later regret it.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life with her?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You said that you love her.”

“I do.”

“But not forever?”

“Forever is a long time. I love her _now_ , that’s enough for me.”

“Are you attached to her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever left her and then wished you hadn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Father,” his formal choice of words surprised him but he forced himself to continue, feeling strangely burdened with some truly terrible news to break, “I don’t think you’re really free.”

The Joxter’s features softened as he seemed to finally understand the point Snufkin was trying to make; “Is that what you think?” There was a hint of pity in his voice, along with something else that might have been disappointment. Snufkin found that liked that even less than the Joxter’s anger; he wasn’t frightened anymore but something in his father’s tone made him feel sad. As he didn’t respond, the Joxter sighed and nearly whispered, “You still have so much to learn, child.”

Several moments passed in complete silence as Snufkin felt too uncomfortable to say anything, and the Joxter seemed to have no need to make the conversation last any longer than it should.  
Snufkin’s eyes wandered from the river before them to the grassy plains of the valley, from the birds flying overhead to the clouds in the sky to the mountains beyond the horizon, and he began to wish he was somewhere else.

“I’m told you leave this place whenever autumn comes along,” the Joxter suddenly said, the softness of his voice taking Snufkin by surprise. Although he wasn’t very eager to continue talking, he was grateful for the change in subject, “Yes, every autumn. Sometimes a little later, until the first snow, if Moomintroll asks me to stay longer. I leave the valley in favor of some time for myself, and come back in spring.”

“And how is that any different from my love for your mother?”

 _How is that different?!_ Snufkin thought. _It’s worlds apart!_

This time he would be wiser and consider his words more carefully, he decided, and then he simply said, “Moomintroll is my friend.”

“He makes you feel wanted.”

“So do all my friends, and Pa- _Moominpappa_ and Moominmamma as well.” He quickly corrected himself, in case his father would take his habit of referring to Moomintroll’s parents as _Pappa_ and _Mamma_ as a personal insult. “And, and besides,” he continued before the Joxter would stop him, “Moominvalley is _beautiful_! I’ve been traveling for as long as I can remember but I’ve never seen any other place like it, and I’m sure you agree with me.”

The Joxter merely shrugged in response, and as he said nothing else, Snufkin added, “I love it here.”

“So if you were to choose a single place on earth to call your home, it would be this valley.”

“…Yes.” Snufkin said, after a moment of hesitation.

A crooked smile spread across the Joxter’s face, as if he knew something Snufkin did not. A certain feeling in his gut told Snufkin that he was not going to like what his father was about to tell him.

“Being a vagabond, your home is wherever your tent is. You have no need for a house because the entire world is your home, and yet here you are, returning to the same spot every single year. Why is that? Because this valley is _so_ beautiful? Or is it because there are people here that love you?”

Snufkin broke eye contact once more as he felt that his father’s eyes as well as his words were boring holes into him.

“Do you come back every year on your own free will, or do you do it because these friends of yours _expect_ you to return?”

He could feel anger rising in his chest as the Joxter finally asked, “And if you come back here because you’re _expected_ to, are you really as free as you think you are?”

The crooked smirk on the Joxter’s face showed that he knew perfectly well that his words had hit a nerve. Clearly pleased with this achievement, the Joxter turned his attention away from his son and lied back on the soft grass, taking the time to relax while Snufkin considered the things he said.

But the Joxter couldn’t possibly be right; Snufkin _was_ free! He could be _anywhere_ but he _chose_ to return to Moominvalley because it was beautiful and peaceful and special to him. And so were his friends.  
Yes, his friends did love him, and he loved them just as much, but he could always go somewhere else if he wanted to. As a matter of fact, he could pack up his tent and leave in that exact moment without saying a single word to anyone and nobody could stand in his way…

He suddenly remembered Moomintroll’s sad eyes; the way he looked at him every time he was about to leave the valley; his near desperate attempts to convince him to stay in Moominhouse during the winter; _We can share my bed_ , he would say, _And if you can’t sleep, we’ll stay up and tell each other ghost stories! Everyone will be asleep except for us, it’ll be fun!_ But Snufkin would turn him down again and again, as he always did, and so Moomintroll would wipe the tears from his eyes and they would exchange their letters and say their goodbyes and Snufkin would _promise_ to return on the very first day of spring, and so he would, until autumn came around again the following year and the cycle would repeat itself once more.  
These things didn’t mean that he wasn’t free… did they?

He could hear his father’s low purr of a voice reaching for him through the swirling fog of his troubling thoughts, “You choose to come back to your friends every year because they love you,” his words sounded kinder somehow, soft and comforting like an unexpected hug, “and I choose to be with the Mymble because I love her. Real freedom is in the choices we make for ourselves, for our own happiness. Are you happy with yours?”

Snufkin sighed and rested his head in his hands, his eyes blinded by the shining river, and his mind lost in thought.


End file.
